A Future Hand & A Common Sellsword
by LawsonTR01
Summary: Tyrion and Bronn venture back from the Vale. They face countless obstacles on their way and come to realize that their travels are not going to be easy. They will test their bond, their loyalty and their trust in one another.
1. 1 TYRION

**A.N: This is the first part to a continuous FF. It will probably go for about five character views for each character (Tyrion and Bronn), so ten chapters. While it may go for longer, that's the minimum length of this short story. It's somewhat AU and therefore things will happen seemingly differently from the books/television show. Hope you enjoy and please review!  
**

**TYRION**

"I don't like this Bronn."

"I don't like the fact that I'm not getting paid until we're back in King's Landing." Bronn mused back.

"Hm." Tyrion's eyes looked as though they were filled with concern. "You do recall that a Lannister always pays his debts, don't you?"

"I do. I'm just starting to not really give a shit. Paying your debts is one thing, paying them promptly is another." Bronn raised his brow suggestively back.

They'd been travelling on their lonesome for at least a week now in the forests beyond the Eyrie. They were dark and gloomy and seemed as if they'd been attacked by torrential and horrid rains at least every second day of the past three-hundred years. Truthfully, they were heart stoppingly frightening. Tyrion had never thought much of the cold and the wet. He much preferred the warmer climate of King's Landing. He much preferred it, even when he was forced to be in the company of his brilliant looking brother, Jaime and his atrociously arrogant and cunning sister, Cersei. Nonetheless these were all things he was willing to endure if he could get himself and his companion out of this god awful swamp land.

While Bronn might have been good company, he was starting to get fed up with the lacking payments. He was a loyal friend, that was certain, but how loyal he would remain when payments dropped another two weeks, Tyrion didn't know. He was after all a sellsword and regardless of how close they'd become over the time they'd spent together – it didn't change that.

So for a brief moment, Tyrion stood in silence and looked up at Bronn.

"You have a point there, Bronn."

"Don't usual speak unless I do." The sellsword spoke back smugly, shrugging his shoulders. "But never fear little man, I'm not going to lop your head off your shoulders anytime soon. I'd go crazy out here without a good conversation." Bronn smirked.

Tyrion let out a nervous laugh.

"Oh, how ever so relieved I feel now."

The two men continued to trudge through the mud that was before them. The sound of trees moving with the wind were constantly grabbing Tyrion's attention and he couldn't help but reach a hand up towards Bronn every time – as if to suggest that the time was nearing for him to draw his blade and save the little dwarf. Tyrion had of course observed the glances Bronn had been giving him. It was amusing the sellsword and Tyrion didn't quite like being the source of laughter and humour.

"You know, you could at least be discrete about how much you find this funny." The dwarf piped sounding insistent that Bronn clean his act up.

"Oh? I do apologize, Lord Tyrion. I shan't look at you funny anymore. I forgot you were only a half man and couldn't take mockery!" Bronn spat back with a sarcasticness to his words.

Tyrion went silent and eyed the sellsword up.

"You've quite a mouth on you, Bronn; did anyone ever tell you that?"

"Once." He replied plainly.

"A wise man."

"A stupid one. He's dead now." Bronn explained before tracking off ahead.

Tyrion had stopped in his tracks and his eyes were frozen on Bronn walking off ahead. How he needed to get used to the company of a sellsword. How he needed to understand what was going to keep him alive and what was going to doom him to an early death.

The night drew on and the cold seemed to continue to grow. Bronn was far more prepared for this kind of weather. His dark cloak draped over his shoulders ensured obvious warmth and the hood that had appeared seemingly out of nowhere kept his greasy black-haired head warm. Rain trickled through the canopy of the above treetops and Tyrion struggled to pull his leather vest over his head. The dwarf took note of Bronn chuckling in the corner whilst he managed the fire and he couldn't help but pout a little. He looked exactly like a child now; sad and alone, absent of what he wanted. A true Lannister. A spoiled brat. Yes; he was starting to remind himself of his sister, Cersei.

"Why don't you come and sit by the fire?" Bronn invited.

"I'm fine where I am, thank-you." Tyrion turned his head away, reluctant to accept the help. He felt as though he had something to prove to the sellsword; as if he were capable of living out these horrid and foreign conditions without the help of anyone. Like a brave lion.

Bronn looked on from where he was perched, a smirk still tickling at the corner of his lips.

"Come on."

"No." Tyrion spoke back pointedly.

"Don't think I'm doing it because I care 'bout you. I want my money, Ser Lannister. Regardless of popular belief, a Lannister can't pay his debts from beyond the grave." Bronn tried to justify his kindnesses.

Tyrion didn't truthfully believe them – but it was enough for him to accept the help of the greasy-haired companion.

Uncurling from the ball he was in by the tree, Tyrion edged towards the fire and blinked quickly to guard his eyes from the trickling waters from above. Dropping down onto his buttocks, the dwarf cast a glance through the flame at Bronn.

"Shall I be taking first guard duty?"

"Only if I wanted to get myself killed." Bronn shot back. "No. I shall be taking the guard duty throughout the night. Go to sleep little lord. You need it. Your used to it." Bronn winked, teasing Tyrion and comparing him more to a princess than a Ser or a Lord of House Lannister.

Even still, reluctant, Tyrion lay his head down and closed his eyes. With a brief thought of home and the wine and food that awaited him, the little dwarf fell asleep feeling pleasant for the first time in quite a long time. Contentment amongst the wild. A disowned son amongst a sellsword and countless animals. Somehow, he just felt that it was appropriate.


	2. 1 BRONN

**BRONN**

The rain grew heavier over the night. Bronn felt droplets of water breaking against his cheeks, slowed by the leaves atop of them – but still moving at a fast enough momentum to cause a discomfort. If he'd been sleeping it might have caused a problem, but the sellsword had been up all night with his sword resting across his lap. He'd drawn his knife and was sharpening the blade casually whilst he kept a wary eye out across the forest.

Tyrion was still sleeping directly in front of him by the burnt out warmth source that Bronn had created the night before. Now there was nothing but smoke and ash left from the wood that was. But light had come and so the fire had drowned out at the perfect time. In parts that he wasn't familiar with, Bronn truthfully preferred to travel amidst it with a clear light illuminating where he was going. While there was never truly a 'clear' light in the forest itself as a result of the overtop canopy, there was more illumination now than there had been several hours ago.

Standing to his feet and sliding his knife into the sheath that he had behind his back, Bronn trudged along, sliding his sword away as he went. With a firm kick, the sellsword prompted Tyrion's awakening.

"Get up." He spoke through gruffness, his eyes not settling on the dwarf but still scanning around the vicinity. There was no reason to take gaze away from the surroundings.

Still, he could hear Tyrion waking, movement giving him away. The sound of an uneasy grunt and a groan was a clear sign of the dissatisfaction of the awakening that Bronn had ever so willingly given.

"Must you be so brutish all the time, Bronn?" the dwarf muttered grouchily, struggling to his feet and patting himself down of the leaves that had stuck to him. "Where to this time my ever trustworthy guide?" Tyrion mocked.

Bronn knew exactly where the dwarf was coming from. They had been stranded out here for long enough and his guiding hand and supposed survival knowledge was not truly spawning or offering itself prominently. Therefore, Bronn allowed the mockery to pass him by and simply offered the dwarf a threatening look.

Tyrion was familiar enough with Bronn to recognize it and the sellsword knew it. It spoke simple words:

'I shall have satisfaction, and you shall have one less limb.'

With a tilt of his head to one side Bronn broke the silence between them.

"We're going that way." He pointed over his shoulder in the opposite direction to whence he was facing. "Through Stone Crow territory and over the mountains. That's where we're going to find your old prick of a father and his suicidal loyalists." Bronn informed blatantly. The facial change in Tyrion's features had Bronn smirking. No one talked foully of the Lannister's in the presence of a Lannister. It was an unspoken rule; a great binding thing over the people of King's Landing. But that was just it. This was Bronn's ground. He was not in King's Landing and neither was Tyrion. The sooner the sellsword could distil that simple truth in the half-man, the better of he'd be in this foreign land in which he'd be forced to endure for at least the remainder of this week.

"You know, Bronn," Tyrion began patting down his leather garments still. "You are a brave man." The dwarf looked up at the sellsword. "No one insults the Lannister name but you do so seamlessly in my presence. Although, perhaps you should mind that tongue of yours when we do arrive in King's Landing. For, otherwise, I'm wary that it may get you killed."

Bronn simply chuckled at the warning. Did Tyrion take him for a fool? He might have been a common blade-wielder and a sword-for-hire but that did not by default make him an imbecile or a fool. However, it was Tyrion's reference to being a Lannister that made Bronn truly laugh. He could see the confusion in Tyrion's eyes.

"You call yourself a Lannister?" Bronn raised a brow.

"I do." Tyrion marked.

"In blood. But everyman bleeds and blood can be drained and cut from the veins that they flow through. Blood is a small thing, little dwarf. Don't think for a moment just because of it that you are a Lannister." Bronn's words were crude and harsh. It was an enlightening session somehow, though. The sellsword knew how disowned Tyrion was amongst his own. How unfamiliar he felt around his family. He was no true Lannister. The House itself considered him a bastard and his father considered him a failed son. A son that would never grow into a man. A son that was a short, stout, useless and uncanny creature that lingered and defamed the Lannister name. The very thing Bronn considered himself to be to his own name. And so, his last name was etched out and he never called himself by it. It was of no purpose. It was of no use. A simple trace back to the loins of a whore and the semen of a common murderer and thief.

The woods were silent for a moment there. Tyrion looked downward towards the floor and Bronn regretted having spoken the truth for a mere moment. It had to be said, though. It was cruel not to say a thing. To have Tyrion believing he was as true a Lannister as Jaime or Cersei. For he wasn't. He was the Jon Snow of House Lannister. The bastard of a credited man. The black mark to a righteous and well respected name.

Turning on his heel and making off in the direction he'd suggested they take, Bronn called loudly behind him.

"Come on. We've already wasted enough daylight." His hand resting on the hilt of his broadsword, Bronn continued at a casual pace. He could hear Tyrion trudging along behind him, trying to allow his feet to keep in pace with Bronn. For every one step of Bronn after all, Tyrion had to make two or three.

There was silence aside from the footsteps of the two men for a long period. Bronn kept his gaze directly ahead making sure that nothing was going to appear in their path. His eyes were scouting for traps or hidden hill tribesmen that might have wanted something particular for dinner tonight. In this case, dwarf and sellsword. Though, just as Bronn believed himself to have caught gaze of something ahead, Tyrion spoke up.

"Thank-you." His words had meaning.

Bronn didn't reply.

"Bronn?"

"Sh." He hushed, drawing his sword and holding it outward, pulling Tyrion behind him.

Four hill tribesmen appeared and Bronn allowed his eyes to weigh each of them up.

"Alright little dwarf. It's time that you found yourself a hiding place."


	3. SHAGGA, leader of the Stone Crow's

**SHAGGA, leader of the Stone Crow's**

A man draped in heavy furs stood on an upraised section of the forest, watching down as his finest four warriors approached a dwarf and his assumed guard. One was undeniably rich and fortunate. The dwarf was draped in fine leathers and gold trinkets with vibrant, golden hair that reminded Shagga, the barbaric and unkempt leader of the Stone Crow's of the rising morning sun that could be seen through the treetops. Despite his stoutness, the half-man was well-off and made up for his physical faults through his material wealth.  
The guard on the other hand was by no means wealthy. He was covered in old, warn garments which were clearly tattered from their over exposure to weather and combat. His face appeared to have aged badly, regardless of his age and his wet, greasy hair was pulled back behind his ears. He looked like a fierce warrior. A warrior that could be of use to the Stone Crow's; of course that were if he was not aligned with the rich newcomer of the lands beyond the mountains.

Leaning his weight onto a thick tree nearby, Shagga looked onward as his men proceeded to narrow the distance between themselves and the newcomers. The guard was readying himself for combat whilst the small creature looked as though he was frantically waddling for cover like some sort of unfortunate bird knowing that its demise was imminent.

Shagga shook his head in disapproval. The dwarf was not brave. The dwarf was not a fighter. The dwarf was a useless creature. The Stone Crow culture told that those who could not fight deserved to die. Those who could fight deserved a death entailed with respect. A death by combat. The final trial before the afterlife. And so, the guard would be given his final trial. The dwarf however would be slaughtered, his body mutilated and his corpse pissed on by the hills men who took his head. It was their right. It was the dwarf's punishment for his dishonour and cowardice.

The first of the Stone Crow moved to attack, a vicious swing of his axe halted by the guards well executed parry. The axe was met with a powerful force and sent from the Crow's hand. Then came the momentum of the greasy-haired mans blade once more and one Crow fell dead, his head separating from his neck.

Blood spluttered like wasted wine into the air and the headless corpse fell motionlessly to the floor.

No less, Shagga could not help but smile. The warrior that had killed his brother in arms was powerful and skilled. Anyone to die here would be honoured hereafter. The afterlife would welcome them with open arms. With whores, with wine and with the power of immortality.

Cheering from the raised forest land, Shagga and his other hill tribesmen sounded like a furious mob, taunting and screaming their war cry. In truth they were supporting this brutal display of violence. This display which graced their land with respected blood. The forest would grow at far beyond a natural rate – for the blood of the powerful, the large and the immortal had been shed here. They would live through the nature which they called their home now.

The small dwarf pulled faces behind the cover of a tree at the sight of the blood spewing from his enemies. The sword master that the hill tribesmen had fought finished his final enemy and blood discoloured his face.

Leaping from where he stood, Shagga took two of his brothers with him to meet the swordsman. Stopping meters from him, the Crow's let out a wild cry. Countless other members of their ranks flocked to them and the distinct look of concern on the dwarfs face was perceived even from afar.

"Nice to see that you folk play fair." The bloodstained warrior called to them.

"You fight powerfully, sword master!" Shagga called violently.

The dwarf pushed his way from the tree and began to move slowly towards his companion. He could see that the violence had caused a satisfaction in the people he believed to be savage.

"I am Tyrion. Tyrion Lannister." The dwarf spoke.

"You are coward!" Shagga shot viciously, raising his two axes in either hand – ready to attack the little man. His companion pointed his blade outward and Shagga felt the sharp tip of the sword on his neck.

"Now be a good boy and put the axes down now won't you? We don't wanna' bleed too many of you folk in your own homeland now do we?"

"Come now, Bronn. There's no need for any more violence." Tyrion raised his hand and invited Bronn to lower his pointed blade.

Shagga's eyes were wide and level on the swordsman. Bronn. He would remember that name.

"You leave now!" Shagga spoke firmly. "You leave now. Bronn earns the dwarf and himself passage through the mountains. Trial of Death reward."

Tyrion did not seem as if this were a good enough reward. Whilst Bronn had taken the time to slide his blade away and cleanse his face somewhat, making his way around the ranks of Shagga's men, the dwarf remained still, his eyes marked on Shagga.

"You're the leader of these tribesmen?" Tyrion asked with sincerity to his words.

Shagga nodded his head and clenched his hands around his axes, still feeling dishonoured by communing with the cowardice dwarf whom had hidden rather than fought for his livelihood.

"Shagga is the leader." He answered back angrily.

"Well, Shagga, I would ask of you to accompany myself and Bronn on our way. I may not be able to fight and perform as according to your customs, I should, but I possesses a great deal of wealth which could get you…. Well what do you like, Shagga?" Tyrion trailed, clearly uncertain of what he could get Shagga and his people. The little dwarf obviously needed or wanted the help of the Crow's. They were powerful, they had numbers – they could make war a great deal easier.

"Shagga likes axes. Weapons!"

"Then if Shagga and his tribesmen come with us, Shagga can have all he wants and more." Tyrion spoke, his eyes assessing the men. "I am a Lannister. My House is very rich." He touched his golden trinkets. "We _always _pay our debts. Especially to friends. And Shagga is a friend now."

Shagga looked from side to side at his fellow leaders. He finally turned back to face Tyrion and nodded his head.

"Shagga and Stone Crow's will come with Tyrion and Bronn. If no get weapons…. Tyrion will be fed to Stone Crow tribesmen and burned to use as oil. Fat dwarf body good for this. Fat dwarf head good for this."

"Very well." Tyrion agreed uncertainly. "Lead the way through the mountains, Shagga."

Without a moments delay, Shagga took to the lead and his men fell in accordance behind him. The hills men walked confidently ahead and Shagga knew exactly where he was going. He could hear the dwarf and his companion speaking behind the marching group and he smiled at the mentions of him and his tribe.

"Do you think this is a good idea, little man?" Bronn quirked.

"Think? No. I was desperate, Bronn. I don't think I can stand being out here for another week and gods know that we'll be here for another month without some help from a local party. You have no fucking idea where you're going." Tyrion uttered wittily.

"Oh, very nice. Now that you have a bunch of hairy cocks protecting your stout self, you're more than willing to curse at me. How very Lannister like of you." Bronn taunted.

"Bronn being foul towards cursing? I never!"

"You're a member of the fancy folk. Half man or not."


	4. 2 TYRION

**A.N: To those of you who have subscribed to the story, thank you very much! I'm really enjoying the reviews but would love for more; whether they're positive or negative - any feedback is great. I hope you're enjoying the story thus far!  
**

**Thanks again and I hope you enjoy the latest chapter!  
**

**TYRION**

The walk felt as if it had gone on for days, but in truth, it had only been going for a few meagre hours. Tyrion's feet were blistering and swelling; he could feel it. Bronn seemed to be keeping in pace with the Stone Crow's without any physical signs of fatigue or hardship. The misfortunes of being a dwarf.

He'd known them since before he'd broken from his teenhood. As a young boy, Tyrion could feel the adversity of his stature and, as his father called it, 'condition'. When he used to try and climb staircases he would topple over as a result of his lack of flexibility and stride in his steps. He could not mount a horse without the assistance of one of the stable hands and manning a blade was near as embarrassing as clattering himself in warrior armour. Indeed, the life of an imp was stunted from birth – much like that of the way he looked. Opportunities were non-existent and possibilities severely disregarded. But that was the reality and the reality could not go without note or acknowledgement.

Through a pained face, Tyrion stopped, leaning down and rubbing his legs to try and ease their aching. "Can we slow down?" he asked. "I'm paining."

Bronn offered him a raised brow and the Stone Crow leader, Shagga, looked backward over his shoulder for no longer than a moment. Then he continued on.

That was enough of an answer for Tyrion Lannister. That was a clear distinction that the people he was travelling with cared very minimally for him; longing only for his gold's and his fortunes.

So Tyrion plodded himself onto the dirt beneath him, his buttocks making a sound as it hit connecting with the solid surface. The Stone Crow's took no note of the sound, but Bronn turned to look at the even more stunted Tyrion Lannister.

"I'm not bloody well carryin' ya'." Bronn tilted his head to the side, looking at the dwarf as a parent would a child misbehaving.

Tyrion crossed his arms and allowed his blond locks to fall just before his eyes, giving Bronn a poor attempt at a brave look. He wanted to prove that he was a lion. That he would hold his own and get what he wanted.

"I'm. Not. Carrying. You." The sellsword repeated, sounding it out simply for the imp.

Tyrion stayed. "Yes, Bronn, you are."

"No Tyrion, I'm not."

"Do you want your payment for this venture, Bronn? If so – you shall come here, raise me onto your back and carry me the remainder of the way." Tyrion commanded with firmness. He felt ever so proud of the way he was standing up for himself. He knew he wasn't doing an overly grand job at hiding that pride physically either.

Bronn stirred a little, his foot digging into the ground in frustration. "Alright, imp." He took a step forward and stopped. "But not a word of this to anyone back in King's Landing. The last thing I need is to be called 'the half-man's plough horse.'" He continued moving until he was right in front of Tyrion.

The half-man grinned. He raised his stumpy, tree trunk-like arms into the air like a newborn wanting to be held. "Up!"

Bronn breathed heavily out, agony at the thought of becoming more a horse than a warrior. He leaned forward, took Tyrion under the arms and lurched him over his shoulder. The dwarfs head dropped backward over Bronn's back and his face was level with the sellsword's buttocks.

"Bronn! Raise me up! You smell like shit!" the imp struggled.

Bronn ignored.

Marvellous.

The remainder of the way seemed more shit infested than the first portion of the trip. In truth, Tyrion had believed Bronn to be making special effort to vent all sorts of foul smells from his rear, even despite the sellswords denial of such.

For the rest of the way, Tyrion took note of Shagga speaking with his Crow's; the mention of gold and trinkets and food and wine all echoing constantly through their laughter. They seemed joyful that they had spared the imp and his companion's life. Truthfully, Tyrion was just as happy with the outcome.

After a consistent period of movement the party stopped. Tyrion felt the tension that was around his ankle from Bronn's grasp release and he fell face first into the ground. Dirt entered his nasal passage and stuck to his sweating forehead. The blood rushed back to his head and suddenly he felt dizzy – like he was when he abused the tremendous amounts of alcohol that King's Landing had to offer. He could see nothing. He could hear everything. The sound of swords, axes and spears clashing echoed from tree to tree and the sound of steel meeting flesh made the scenario ever more uneasy.

While he couldn't see, Tyrion Lannister knew what to do; run. He charged blinded in the opposite direction of the sound of steel and death. He maintained movement for a few seconds but his foot caught a log and he felt his balance slip away from him. He'd lost control of his body, he was in freefall and before he knew it, he felt a firm hit to his head and his senses faded from him.

He woke to the sound of chanting. He could feel the warmth of a fire nearby. His sight began to come back to him although it was blurred. He could make out nothing other than that he was in a masterfully made cell; especially considering that he was in a forest with nothing about him but nature. Tyrion Lannister cast a look around once his sight truly came back to him. He could see now that it was the Stone Crow's that were chanting in their own separate cell. He looked to his left. Bronn was sitting with his back against the far corner of the cell and his eyes settled on the people whom had captured them.

"Bronn," Tyrion began. "Where are we? What happened?"

The sellsword bit his lower lip and wiped some blood off of his brow. Tyrion was concerned for a moment, but he soon realised that the blood that was being wiped from the mans forehead did not belong to him.

"The Stark lady might've had some decency in lettin' you go, Tyrion – but her sister didn't." the sellsword uttered, lifting his right hand and signalling to the men guarding the Stone Crow's cell.

"Men of the Vale." Tyrion answered himself. "I don't suppose they shall be as easy to persuade as our beloved Stone Crow tribesmen now will they?"

"I don't know about bribin' 'em, but you could always ask to go for a piss and head-butt them in the balls to make your escape. You're the perfect height for it." Bronn teased with a smug grin.

Tyrion could not help but chuckle at Bronn's dark humour. The sellsword had a way of making his fun-poking enjoyable; even for the victim. After all, the joke itself was an essential possibility. Tyrion laughed a little more at that thought. Standing up from his previous position, the imp eased his way towards the cell door and placed his hands on the wooden bars. It was truly more a cage than anything else. Now he knew what Sansa felt like. A bird trapped by Cersei and Joffrey and every other god-forsaken person in King's Landing. To some degree, even her father trapped her and bound her to this wedding and the uniting of houses. It was a fate that Tyrion Lannister never had to fear for himself. He would never have to wed for the sake of such a thing. He, however, had to fear the literal cage. A prison which would hold him forever; whether it was because people found him to horrifying to look upon, or because his schemes found him in uncharted territory which not even he could prepare for.

He stopped for a moment, looked back at Bronn and then looked towards the guards beyond the cell.

"How would you like to stage an escape, my friend?" Tyrion spoke just above a whisper, resting his head against the door of the prison he was in.

"I like anything and everything so long as there's a price on it." Bronn smirked back.


	5. SER CASTOR EGEN, man of the Vale

**SER CASTOR EGEN, Eyrie Guardsman**

Sitting about the fire, the Guardsmen of the Eyrie laughed and told joyful stories of combat that they had experienced. While they may have faced far less combat than most in Westeros, they were able to construct and dictate stories as well as the finest warriors of the Seven Kingdoms. Ser Castor Egen, cousin of Vardis Egen sat with his arms folded over his chest and an emotionless look plastered across his features. He considered himself a usually introverted folk. A warrior that had a great sense of self awareness and emotional strain, but rarely showed it beyond his exterior. He was a warrior. He could not be read for it could cause him countless types of misfortune. People would be able to predict his movements. See what made him act out of instinct and impulse rather than assessed and well devised movements. Ser Castor Egen was everything his cousin was not. Absent of chivalry, absent of a need to be brave and completely focused on self-preservation.

Apparently his outlook had succeeded his cousins for he was still living while his cousin had plummeted a far way.

He might have been a man that tried to hide his inner emotions but it was clear that he was being haunted by the image of his cousins slaying. He was begrudging towards the half-man and his swordsman. So while his fellow Eyrie men tended to their stories, their wine and their slaughtered boar, Castor gazed from the cover of his tree towards the imp's cell.

Tyrion Lannister had reminded him of some kind of demon spawned from beyond this world. He possessed all the ugliness of The Hound and all the cunning of someone like Varys of King's Landing. He was the very depiction of evil and disease. He needed to be killed. Not only for his deformities but for the justice of House Egen's lost son, Vardis who had fallen.

Using his right hand to pull him up the from the floor using the tree he'd named his own, Castor stepped towards the open fire and clanged his sword tip on a large rock that one of the charged guards was sitting upon.

The man turned and his eyes were absent of emotion. "Is there something you want, Ser Egen?" the charged man queried. He seemed disinterested and more absorbed in his tough boar meat.  
Castor stayed silent for a moment but then spoke outward. "I wish to challenge the half-man's sellsword to a duel. I wish to avenge Ser Egen, before me." His words were met with wide eyed looks from all those crowded around the fire.  
The charged man blinked once, breathed in and took a bite of his boar. He chewed for a moment and continued to look on aimlessly at Castor. "Your cousin…." He began, his mouth still stuffed with food, "was a far better fighter than you'll ever be. If the sellsword killed him – you'll be dead within the first three swings or less!" the crowded folk chuckled loudly around the fire and some of the Stone Crow's that the men of the Eyrie had captured laughed too.  
Castor felt like an idiot. He felt like he was useless and a joke amongst these men. He tossed his sword down to the floor and it thudded upon impact.  
"Is my ambition to avenge a member of my house a joke, is it?"  
Some of the men nodded and groaned in agreement.  
Castor marched towards the cell of the half-man and his bodyguard. With a firm pull at the latch, he opened the cell door entrance and signalled towards Bronn. Castor was infuriated. For the first time, he was showing his emotions. He was being read by everyone around him and his actions were clearly instinctual and went without clear strategy or assessment. "You, come! You and I shall battle!"

Castor watched eagerly as Bronn jumped to his feet and moved out of the cell. The sellsword looked around for a sword; there were none to be offered. Castor smiled. He'd unarmed himself also. Swords were not needed for this. Bronn would consider this a fair fight, but Castor had planned himself true enough. A concealed blade in his boot would even the odds and House Egen would be known for this avenging.  
The sellsword sighed in boredom. "Are you sure you want to do this, boy?"  
Castor nodded.  
The gathered folk watched on, concerned for their brother.  
"Castor, enough! Lady Arryn wants the two of them alive so that she can punish them for their crimes!" the charged man called.  
He was not received with a response.  
"Fight me!" Castor called ferociously, leaning forward as if to ready for a charge. His hand slipped down his leg however, and his hand grappled the hilt of his knife. He was confident. Castor was going to win this and the blood of Bronn would trickle from his blade and poison the earth.  
Bronn charged forward and Castor was pleased. He knew that if the sellsword continued, he would merely have to raise his knife and the man would pierce himself.  
But the man did not charge forward as expected. As he came near, Castor felt his body charge with adrenaline. He drew his blade from his boot as Bronn neared but the sellsword dropped under his arm and slid to his rear.  
Castor turned. He blinked. He heard steel meeting with his knife and his eyes tracked towards his airborne weapon.  
By the time he'd looked back, he felt cold steel rip through his heart. Blood oozed onto the blade and Bronn twisted and pushed until the blade was protruding from Castor's back.  
He felt the life draining from him. He wanted to call out and scream for assistance but he couldn't. The words had escaped him. He had no breath remaining.  
House Egen would not stand avenged.  
House Egen had no other men to offer to the Eyrie.

The blade was relinquished and suddenly Castor felt relief. He was not paining anymore. He was simply growing evermore tired. His body dropped to the floor and his vision faded from clarity to blackness and then, eventually, blurred into nothingness. He could still hear very clearly; perhaps even more clearly than he once had.  
The sound of the charged mans voice spoke.  
"Drop the blade, sellsword. No one else need die here. Go back into your cell."  
The charged man did not care for the death of a mere Ser. Castor felt even more useless now than he had before in his time of livelihood. Less cared for and less loved.  
This task to find the murderers of Vardis Egen was not to seek independent vengeance. It was to bring the men who caused Lady Arryn a dissatisfaction back so that she could set her judgement unto them.  
Not because they had killed a Ser or a noble knight.  
No.  
To relinquish the embarrassment that they had caused Lady Arryn herself.

Soon sound faded away. Like the blackness of his sight, his hearing fell unyieldingly. His heart beat slowed and what function it once had failed.  
It was a funny thing how peace was only found in death.


End file.
